He turned to walk toward Renarin. As Yake picked up one of the colored stones Zahel had been throwing, the man said, without looking, “And don’t touch my rocks!”

Yake jumped and dropped the stone.

Kaladin settled back, leaning against one of the pillars that held up the roof overhang, watching Zahel give instruction to Renarin. Syl zipped down and began inspecting the little rocks with a curious expression, trying to figure out what was special about them.

A short time later, Zahel walked past with Renarin, explaining the lad’s training for today. Apparently, he wanted Renarin to eat lunch. Kaladin smiled as some ardents hurriedly carried out a table, dining ware, and a heavy stool that could support a Shardbearer. They even had a tablecloth. Zahel left the bemused Renarin, who sat in his hulking Shardplate with his faceplate up, regarding a full lunch. He awkwardly picked up a fork.

“You’re teaching him to be delicate with his newfound strength,” Kaladin said to Zahel as the man passed back the other way.

“Shardplate is powerful stuff,” Zahel said, not looking at Kaladin. “Controlling it is about more than punching through walls and jumping off buildings.”

“So when do we—”

“Keep waiting.” Zahel wandered off.

Kaladin glanced at Teft, who shrugged. “I like him.”

Yake chuckled. “That’s because he’s almost as grouchy as you are, Teft.”

“I ain’t grouchy,” Teft snapped. “I just have a low threshold for stupidity.”

They waited until Zahel jogged back toward them. The men grew immediately alert, eyes widening. Zahel carried a Shardblade.

They’d been hoping for it. Kaladin had told them they might be able to hold one as part of this training. Their eyes followed that Blade as they’d follow a gorgeous woman taking off her glove.

Zahel stepped up, then slammed the Blade into the sandy ground in front of them. He took his hand off the hilt and waved. “All right. Try it out.”

They stared at it. “Kelek’s breath,” Teft finally said. “You are serious, aren’t you?”

Nearby, Syl had turned from the rocks and stared at the Blade.

“The morning after talking to your captain in the middle of the Damnation night,” Zahel said, “I went to Brightlord Dalinar and the king and asked permission to train you in sword stances. You don’t have to carry swords around or anything, but if you’re going to fight an assassin with a Shardblade, you need to know the stances and how to respond to them.”

He looked down, resting his hand on the Shardblade. “Brightlord Dalinar suggested letting you handle one of the king’s Shardblades. Smart man.”

Zahel removed his hand and gestured. Teft reached out to touch the Shardblade, but Moash seized the thing first, taking it by the hilt and yanking it—too hard—out of the ground. He stumbled backward, and Teft backed away.

“Be careful, now!” Teft barked. “You’ll cut off your own storming arm if you act like a fool.”

“I’m no fool,” Moash said, holding the sword up, pointing it outward. A single gloryspren faded into existence near his head. “It’s heavier than I expected.”

“Really?” Yake said. “Everyone says they’re light!”

“Those are people used to a regular sword,” Zahel said. “If you’ve trained all of your life with a longsword, then pick up something that looks like it has two or three times as much steel to it, you expect it to weigh more. Not less.”

Moash grunted, delicately swiping with the weapon. “From the way the stories are told, I thought it wouldn’t have any weight at all. Like it would be as light as a breeze.” He hesitantly stuck it into the ground. “It has more resistance when it cuts than I thought too.”

“Guess it’s about expectations again,” Teft said, scratching at his beard and waving Yake to have the weapon next. The stout man pulled it free more carefully than Moash had.

“Stormfather, but it feels strange to hold this,” Yake said.

“It’s just a tool,” Zahel said. “A valuable one, but still just a tool. Remember that.”

“It’s more than a tool,” Yake said, swiping it. “I’m sorry, but it just is. I might believe that about a regular sword, but this… this is art.”

Zahel shook his head in annoyance.

“What?” Kaladin asked as Yake reluctantly handed the Shardblade over to Teft.

“Men prohibited from using the sword because they’re too lowborn,” Zahel said. “Even after all these years, it strikes me as silly. There’s nothing holy about swords. They’re better in some situations, worse in others.”

“You’re an ardent,” Kaladin said. “Aren’t you supposed to uphold Vorin arts and traditions?”

“Well,” Zahel said, “if you haven’t noticed, I’m not a very good ardent. I just happen to be an excellent swordsman.” He nodded toward the sword. “You going to take a turn?”

Syl looked at Kaladin sharply.

“I’ll pass unless you demand it,” Kaladin said to Zahel.

“Not curious at all how it feels?”

“Those things have killed too many of my friends. I’d rather not have to touch it, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Suit yourself,” Zahel said. “Brightlord Dalinar’s suggestion was to get you used to these weapons. To take away some of the awe. Half the time a man dies by one of those, it’s because he’s too busy staring to dodge.”

“Yeah,” Kaladin said softly. “I’ve seen that. Swing it at me. I need practice facing one down.”

“Sure. Let me get the sword’s guard.”

“No,” Kaladin said. “No guard, Zahel. I need to be afraid.”

Zahel studied Kaladin for a moment, then nodded, walking over to take the sword from Moash—who had begun a second turn swinging it.

Syl zipped past, twisting around the heads of the men, who couldn’t see her. “Thank you,” she said, settling onto Kaladin’s shoulder.

Zahel walked back and fell into a stance. Kaladin recognized it as one of the lighteyed dueling stances, but he didn’t know which one. Zahel stepped forward and swung.

Panic.

Kaladin couldn’t keep it from rising. In an instant, he saw Dallet die—the Shardblade shearing through his head. He saw faces with burned-out eyes reflecting on the Blade’s too-silvery surface.

The Blade passed a few inches in front of him. Zahel stepped into the swing and brought the Blade around again in a flowing maneuver. This time it would hit, so Kaladin had to step back.

Storms, those monsters were beautiful.

Zahel swung again, and Kaladin had to jump to the side to dodge. A bit overzealous there, Zahel, he thought. He dodged again, then reacted to a shadow he’d seen from the corner of his eye. He spun, and came face-to-face with Adolin Kholin.

They stared one another in the eyes. Kaladin waited for a wisecrack. Adolin’s eyes flicked toward Zahel and the Shardblade, then turned back to Kaladin. Finally, the prince gave a shallow nod. He turned about and walked toward Renarin.

The implication was simple. The Assassin in White had bested both of them. There was nothing to mock in preparing to fight him again.